By: Lauren Harper
Dear Max,
Today marks the day you were meant to enter the world, but instead, you’ve already made your mark in our hearts.
Beginning of a Journey
Let me take you back to the beginning. About nine months ago, I was preparing for a work dinner in a hotel room in New York City when I decided to take a pregnancy test—just to be sure. Networking is a lot more manageable with a glass or two of wine, right? To my surprise, the test was positive! Here we go, awkward small talk awaits!
Some might have felt overwhelmed at the thought of another baby, especially with a toddler and an infant at home. I was met with joy from the moment I saw that positive result. I envisioned the three of you—Max, Ella, and Jack—forming a trio of mischief and laughter. I reveled in the thought of this new life joining our family, believing it to be simply meant to be.
Dreams of You
Over the next several months, I imagined what you would be like and how our family dynamic would shift with your arrival. I dreamed of you inheriting my green eyes (which neither of your siblings have) and your sister’s determination combined with your brother’s cuddly nature. I imagined you as the first in our family to sleep through the night without the aid of a Magic Sleepsuit, bringing a bit of peace back into our home.
I pictured winter walks bundled up in the camo bunting we had ready for you, sipping coffee while reading to you, eagerly waiting for spring to embrace us. I fantasized about taking you to college—being the last child to leave home—watching you shed a tear as you realized how much I would miss you. I anticipated the arrival of your siblings at the hospital, imagining your brother showering you with kisses, just as your sister had done with him.
Heartbreak and Loss
For those four months, even though you weren’t yet physically present, you filled my heart. I cherished every moment, especially after the nausea faded. Mother’s Day was one of those memorable days, filled with laughter and love from your brother and sister. Our family felt complete as they tumbled over me, and I held you close in spirit.
But on that fateful Monday, everything changed. Your father and I took Ella to the doctor to see your first pictures, eager to reveal if you were a boy or a girl. We had already learned you were a boy but wanted to keep the surprise for Ella. The excitement turned to dread as we learned about your condition. Your arms and legs were far too small, and even your rib cage was not developed enough to support your lungs.
The doctor couldn’t pinpoint the exact issue, but she knew it meant you couldn’t thrive in this world. We later discovered you had a condition known as osteogenesis imperfecta type II, which caused your bones to be extremely fragile. Each movement caused them to break, and your time on earth would have been filled with pain.
Saying goodbye to you was the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. I wish I could have felt you move more often, but I only experienced three gentle nudges. I wish I could have spent more time talking to you, telling you how much I loved you. I yearn for the chance to fix what was broken within you, to give you the life you deserved.
A Story of Loss
This is a story of loss—one that began on May 16, 2017, when we learned your condition was “not compatible with life.” I birthed you at White Plains Hospital after a long labor, but by the time you arrived, your heart had already stopped beating. I held you close, wrapped in a blanket, and I will forever cherish those minutes. You had your brother’s nose, a reminder of the love we shared.
This journey also taught me to advocate for myself. I faced doctors who tried to push me into decisions that didn’t align with my wishes. I also experienced the incredible power of science, as we later learned about the genetic mutation that caused your condition. With this knowledge, we understood that it was likely a random event, giving us hope for future children.
Grief and Community
This narrative is not just about politics; it’s deeply personal. I grappled with how to label your loss—was it stillbirth, pregnancy loss, or abortion? Regardless of the terminology, the pain was real, and every person’s grief is valid.
Additionally, this is a story about the strength of community. The support from friends, family, and even strangers helped me navigate this challenging time. I received countless messages filled with love, and colleagues offered me the space to grieve and heal.
Finding Hope
It took time, but I’m slowly learning to heal. Some days are harder than others, and I still face reminders of my loss. But amidst the heartache, I find hope. I look forward to welcoming new life into our family someday and celebrating the joys that lie ahead.
Most importantly, this is a love letter to you, Max. I will never get to plan birthday parties or watch you grow, but you will always be a part of me.
Resources for Support
For those seeking support or information on similar journeys, I encourage you to visit this blog for resources on home insemination, or check out Make a Mom for more insights. You can also find valuable information at Rmany, which offers excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
Summary
This heartfelt narrative recounts the profound journey of losing a baby named Max, who was expected to join a loving family. The author reflects on the dreams and joys of pregnancy, the heart-wrenching diagnosis of a fatal condition, and the challenges of grief. Through advocacy, the power of community, and the process of healing, the author honors the memory of Max while holding onto hope for the future.